Warriorborn
by Tes-thesula
Summary: The Night Elf Iyokus reflects on his nature in a time soon after the Shattering. Something to read alongside his other adventures


Bare feet walked across a carpet of leaves, pushing through them like a whisper upon the wind. Everything was so still in the glade, even the leaves that twisted through the air seemed to hang suspended, little embers of flame-coloured gauze floating in the gentle breeze. Despite the lateness of the season, it was still balmy and cool, the breath of air only drawing goosebumps when hidden in the shade and she wore little, a long skirt that mimicked the flow of water through the rocks and a band across her breasts that exposed her flat stomach. Her long, unbound green hair cascaded down her shoulders, intertwined with a delicate weave of jewellery designed to look like carefree vines, while feathers framed her face, and the small look of amusement that danced playfully across her smooth features.

She stepped lightly, the leaves crunching beneath her feet. At the centre of the glade, sitting cross-legged amongst what other races might call ruins was the object of her attention. He was shirtless, but wore a fur mantle that must have been too warm for the autumn and his head was bowed, his wild white hair hiding his face from her, but she saw him twitch as she approached.

'Shan'do,' she said quietly, pushing her fingers into his thick mane, curling them up and pulling against his scalp like it was the flank of some bear or long-toothed saber. In his lap, his fingers stroking it lightly, was the lower half of a red mask, the mouth screwed up into a monstrous frown.

'Thero'shan,'

His voice was barely above a murmur, caught somewhere between a breath and a rumble and he did not look up at her. She knew that his eyes, which usually burned with golden flames, would be dim, allowing her to see the irises of his expression. She descended, folding her long, graceful legs beneath her and wrapping her bare arms around his neck, elbow on his torso, and rested her chin on his shoulder. She could feel the power that rested beneath his marred skin. It was like touching the bark of quiescent treant, or the hot fur of a tamed beast – it was there, waiting, coiled up, always on the verge of being unleashed.

'Put it aside for one day,' she whispered, lips angled against his ear, 'let us sit here and listen to the stories the birds tell, or name the stars in the sky. There is no call for you to wear that face every day of eternity.'

He did not respond, so she continued, trailing her fingers along his collarbone as she spoke, feeling and counting the ridges that marked where it had been broken and reset.

'The season is coming to an end and even war must sheathe his sword for the winter.'

She could see the edge of his smile, the lines that it cut into his sharp face and felt her cheeks pull on her own lips and she nipped at his thick shoulder, sharp teeth leaving a mark that would fade in no time at all.

'Just for one night. Then you can go back to being Iyokus and pretend you did not feel the peace here.'

His chest bucked under her arms as he chuckled and she knew that she had won. As she slithered around his body, wriggling like a snake on a hot rock, he tossed the mask aside to make room for her on his lap, his hard arms cradling her back.

'I'm sure we can forgive one night,' he murmured, leaning in towards her lips, his eyes alight.

The trees of the glade burst into flames, howling in outrage and the ground trembled and quaked throwing up great jagged teeth of stone and Iyokus was jerked awake.

He tasted ash on his tongue and spat, sighing wearily as he heaved himself up. He had been sleeping on the ground and his back was sore with the strain. His heart was dark as he considered the dream the day past.

He remembered the glade. It had been in eastern Ashenvale. Gone now, the trees cut down and defiled, the soil churned up beneath the soles of orcish boots. They had uprooted the very memory of the place from the world, had made it so that it would die with him. What kind of burden was that? To make someone the repository of history. It was like burning a book that they couldn't read. Wasteful, cruel, criminal

Evil

The woman too, his honoured student, long since gone from the world. She had been a flash of lightening in the sky, galvanising, energetic... only there for an instant. He dragged his pack closer to him, and rooted through it, pushing aside the paraphernalia of his lifestyle to reach down to the very bottom. Grasping the thing, he brought it up.

The red mask. Chipped and worn now, some parts had lost their colour, revealing the dark wood that was underneath. Living wood, gifted by a treant, it would not decay, would survive the ages as long as he did. Of all the things from that dream-memory, it was all that remained to him, no matter how strong things seemed back then. It was the only thing that he could rely on, that he was certain of. Not the world - that could break around him, shatter and burn. Not people, too often had they died or disappeared, turned their ire upon him.

Only this had come through the millennia.

So he would fight, not because what the Horde was doing was wrong, crimes of such epic proportions it beggared belief, although that was true, but because it was who he was, what he did. Sworn to battle. Soldier, murderer, killer.

Warrior


End file.
